The Amish and I have issues, and I’m here to settle them.
Turn the clock back to February 3rd, 2001. It was a more innocent time. The dangers of Y2K had passed, and the future looked bright to all who gazed ahead. How could I not be optimistic about life? I was 17 years old and the most popular and handsome senior in Middletown South.
It wasn’t just my husky frame and great comic book collection that made me popular—it was also the award winning graphic design work I did for the school paper. It brought me the respect of the men, and the affection of the women. I truly knew nothing but wild success.
That all changed the night of February 3rd. It started as a celebration. It was the inaugural game of the XFL. Yes, the XFL. The short-lived football league that first brought Ron “He Hate Me” Smart onto our televisions and into our hearts…
While I watched history unfold, something arrived in my inbox…the end of my innocence. A few days earlier, I’d discovered that the Amish don’t have to pay all of their taxes. I’d long suspected that their “cash only” policy was just a ploy to keep their furniture-making income off the books…but this was different.
It turns out they have special exemptions on whatever fraction of their income they choose to report…they exploit the very religious freedoms won by the very wars they’re exempt from fighting!
This felt like an injustice. Their beliefs were being held to a different standard than yours and mine. I was blinded by rage and determined to catch these hypocrites in the act. And I did—on the internet.
They use websites like Amish.net and AmishHeartland.com to sell their wicker baskets and home-made candles, and to brazenly mock us with their existence. There was only one course of action…an anonymous, strongly worded email.
When I received a reply to my anonymous message, I learned there are stronger words than the ones I’d been willing to write. Words like my full name, my home address, and the name of my high school newspaper. I was hit harder than a He Hate Me tackle.
They went for blood. They contacted the newspaper award committees to sabotage not only me, but my hard working colleagues as well. When I told them they sucked, I did so with honor. But honor is a concept as alien to them as Social Security Tax.
So they strong-armed an apology out of me. They humbled me through threats and humiliation.
I’ve never forgiven them for this.
Amish, I know you’re monitoring my profile, so know this:
You may have scared a child, but it’s a man who walks towards you now. Each step I take is a grain of sand falling through the hourglass. Your time runs short and your hypocrisy goes unchallenged no longer. February 3rd wasn’t just the beginning of the end for the XFL; it was the day that sealed your fate. What does the X in XFL stand for? It stands for “X marks the spot.” And the spot is New Holland, PA.
I’m coming, as soon as I’m through with Intercourse.
Other than a few self-aggrandizing flourishes, that’s exactly what had happened in real life. Yes, I was that kid. The high school senior easily (if a bit facetiously) enraged by the federal tax policy. Yes, it led me to write an angry email to several Amish webmasters, ending with the phrase “You suck.” Yes, one sent back a vaguely menacing response full of my personal details that suggested, among other things, a deep familiarity with IP address technology.
And yes, I backed down immediately.
I knew that my Facebook friends would remember the incident and that it would remind them of how strange life can be. It also struck me as a good opportunity to continue a story that had just sort of stopped. Here was my chance to write the missing next chapter—and I could say whatever I wanted. After all, in light of the apparent Web savviness of the Amish, what do any of us really “know” about them? They’re somewhere off to the side of our cultural radar. They are the Facebook friends of our cultural landscape.
Now that I had revived this old feud, I could write almost anything about it…I just had to write quickly. The moment I posted my proclamation, I’d subjected myself to the unrelenting deadlines of creating fiction in real time. While Facebook grants plenty of opportunities for second-guessing after posting, there’s no room for revision. There’s only a never-ending sense of urgency—every passing moment is a part of your story. Everything is happening “now.” And while each of my posts had the potential to create a loose thread that could unravel the whole story, a lack of posts would raise suspicion, too.
Earlier, I described Fakebook as a giant red button marked “Do Not Push.” Now the button was flashing. Was it an ignition? Or a self-destruct? Either way, I carried it around in my pocket at all times—even at the grocery store.
In the chips and dip aisle of my neighborhood grocery store, my eyes lingered on a nearby candy display. I took out my phone, logged on to Facebook, and sorted through my photos until I found the images I’d prepared. I smiled nervously at the ridiculous thing I was about to make true.
All I had to do was press a button, and it would have happened.
But I hesitated and put the phone back in my pocket. I bought a pack of M&M’s and walked out of the store. The clock continued to tick.
The first few weeks of Fakebook hadn’t gone as planned. I was completely stunned by its immediate impact, and I’d desperately come up with ways to avoid taking the next step. Like it or not—and I didn’t like it—my profile was my reputation, and I had put it on the line for something I’d started but really didn’t understand. Was I just doing something funny and entertaining, or was I exploiting my friends and their repressed longings? I didn’t know. I still don’t know. I just knew I needed to land this thing on my own terms.
I stopped at an intersection. I ate a handful of M&M’s without really tasting them. I glanced across the street. People were walking out of the costume shop with their store-bought make-believe, and I took my phone out again. The clock was ticking. I had to do this now, or it was all over.
“To hell with it.”
It was almost Mischief Night, and I wanted to toilet-paper something.
So I did.
Dave Cicirelli
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Julia Park wtf?…
less than a minute ago via mobile · Like
Dave Cicirelli
Oh my god am I in trouble…
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Jay Patterson Do we have to subscribe to your blog for details?
32 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Matt Riggio what the hell did you do? Is that TP?
28 minutes ago · Like
Pete Garra ???
24 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Matt Campbell Don’t even tell me the Amish have security cameras.
24 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Pete Garra all i can picture is dave chained and being forced to churn butter or make candles. It’s horrible. Maybe a scene for saw 7?
23 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Dave Cicirelli
Ok…So apparently it’s a “hate crime” to vandalize someone’s property because they’re Amish. Also, my profile and phone are obviously filled with “evidence.” This is not good.
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Matt Campbell I was going to voice my concern about it being called a ‘hate crime’ but didn’t want to jinx it…You used TP…not like you burned down a barn…
2 hours ago via mobile · Like
Ted Kaiser don’t be scurred
about an hour ago via mobile · Like
Dave Cicirelli Dude. Regardless of how we feel about the definition of hate crimes, it makes this much more serious. And out here, being 26 isn’t young, where they’ll go easy on you.
I have no idea how this will play out.
about an hour ago via mobile · Like
Pete Garra wait, were you actually arrested?
about an hour ago
via mobile · Like
Matt Riggio Dave, I have a friend who is a lawyer down in the Pittsburgh area. Call me on my home line if you need me or would like his number.
about an hour ago via mobile · Like
Joe Lennon damn i love following your adventures. best of luck with the amish war machine.
55 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Steve Cuchinello TP is a hate crime?!?! What is this country coming to? The Amish are almost unstoppable. I told you to TP the horse—you have to immobilize them.
8 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Dave Cicirelli Yeah, Steve. Good thinking. Having PETA on my ass feels like a great next step.
4 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Steve Cuchinello Get PETA on their asses!! They can use cars but choose not to. They ignore modern machinery and instead continue to exploit horses, cows, pigs, etc. Hypocrites.
less than a minute ago via mobile · Like
Dave Cicirelli …Machiavellian…
just now via mobile · Like
Dave Cicirelli
I think we may work something out, outside of court.
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Matt Campbell Wow. Thank god man. I was thinking the worst when I didn’t see any posts for a while.
about an hour ago via mobile · Like
Tara B. I’d say you lucked out, but I still don’t know if it will involve suspenders. Lesson learned this time?
about an hour ago via mobile · Like
Ted Kaiser ur disappointing me. Your big trip for revenge is ending with you wussing out over some toilet paper crime.
38 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Dave Cicirelli Who the hell do you think you are, Ted? What USC branded mesh shorts are you wearing that give you the cajones to sit back in your comfortable chair and call me a nancy?
37 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Ted Kaiser I believed that you were going to go to Amish country and set this thing straight. Instead you fold over a misdemeanor. The hope I had has been extinguished.
35 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Dave Cicirelli
I have to pay the Amish back as a personal debt. I’ll be working and living here in exchange for dropping all charges. I feel like I was sentenced to be their butler.
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Gregory Kumm All I can think of is you coming out of the barn with two buckets full of milk. I woke up early and took the liberty of milking your cow. We don’t have a cow, we have a bull.
26 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Joe Moscone Do they raise barns this time of year? I hope they make you wear a dress. Or, if not, grow one of those stupid chinstrap beards. Or maybe they’ll make you pull that carriage you vandalized, and that poor horse can get a few days off.
18 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Jay Patterson Did you get your gear back? I’m already glad I subscribed to your misadventure. Good luck with your future travels man!
14 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Elizabeth Lee Are you serious? For how long? All you did was a little toilet paper…don’t let them bully you.
9 minutes ago via mobile · Like
Steve Cuchinello Dave, if it makes you feel any better, I would rather be milking cows in Amish country than watching AJ Burnett pitch right now.
less than a minute ago via mobile · Like
Mission accomplished.
“Don’t take my picture.”
I was sitting in a booth at one of the many East Village faux dive bars, with my hand extended out to block the camera’s line of sight. I was at a birthday party for one of my coworkers at Handler, and it had only been a few hours since I branded myself a hate-criminal farmhand.
“Damn paparazzi,” I said.
“Are you serious?” the confused birthday girl asked.
“Yeah, I am—I can’t be tagged in photos at some bar. People think I’m living on a farm.”
“You’re so weird.”
“No, he’s brilliant!” Joe stepped in. “And so is Fakebook.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
“It’s also kinda fascinating.” Christine joined the fray. “He’s discovering what people are willing to believe—how much of what they see online they’re ready to accept.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
They debated for a bit, and I let them have at it—I was on both sides of the argument. The conversation eventually moved on, but my thoughts lingered.
I’d been well accustomed to the thrill of a successful prank, but this one was different—the sense of danger was weirdly divorced from the moment. There was no grand catharsis, no single instant for me to realize that I’d “gotten” them. I was never in the room to watch my audience’s reaction. I had almost no sense of whether I was fooling everyone or even fooling anyone.
Meanwhile, the usual suspects were posting on my wall, but they only made up a fraction of my hundreds of Facebook friends—so what did that mean? How far down had the hoax taken root? How many people were falling for it? I just didn’t know.
A large part of me was on that farm with Fake Dave, keeping tabs on the timeline, making sure his story unfolded at the right pace. Another part of me was back in Red Bank, wondering how my hometown was reacting to Fakebook. There was only a little bit left of me in the moment.
After a few minutes, my phone vibrated, rousing me from my thoughts. It was a text from an old friend, Jason.
“I don’t do Facebook…but that doesn’t mean I’m not following you. Hang in there. People love you.”
Jay and I had been close friends back in grade school, but I hadn’t seen him since his wedding a year earlier. I didn’t know how to respond, so once again, I just ignored it.
I ended up leaving the birthday party early and started walking home along Avenue B, checking my profile at every street corner. Jay’s text made it clear that my wall was a poor indicator of exactly who was paying attention. Were people just hesitant to get involved? Were they embarrassed to admit to being audience members? Whatever the reason, this was bigger than it looked. People were talking about it. If not over the Internet, then over beers.
I felt completely cut off and needed to check in. So I gave Ted a call, but he didn’t pick up.
A beat later I got a text. “Not safe 2 talk. Call you later.”
It’s funny how Ted quickly became my closest confidant. Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have looped him into the hoax if he hadn’t been part of the conversation that inspired it. He was one of my oldest friends, but our interests didn’t entirely overlap. Based on fifteen years of going to Mets games but never to the Met, I’d wrongly assumed that creative endeavors like Fakebook were out of Ted’s wheelhouse.
Besides, he was a notoriously dull Facebook poster. As I write this sentence, his actual status is:
Ted Kaiser
Freehold Mall for some shopping, stopping by the Monmouth-Nova game, Birthday Party for a bit, then out in RB for some Reggae Night.
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Guh. What makes him think my wall is his to-do list? His was exactly the type of profile I was trying to parody, and yet he’d turned out to be a tremendous asset—mostly due to his status as the “mayor” of Red Bank.
I can’t say that I understood why everyone seemed to know Ted Kaiser, or why everyone turned to him for information when a rumor got out, but we did. He was never a sports star or a class clown or anything that typically makes someone the center of their social circle…He was just a natural master of networking.
Actually, I take that back. It sounds too calculating. He was just a guy—someone who everyone seemed to like well enough to be one of his two thousand Facebook friends. And as a result, he was the hub of all Red Bank news. So whenever someone stumbled onto my profile, Ted’s corroboration of the story was often more than enough
to get them to buy in, and best of all, he was able to relay the reactions of my hometown crowd to me. He was tending to my roots.
A lot of the kids I grew up with drifted back to Red Bank after having the college experience, and I might have been one of them…but the thing is, I didn’t have the typical college experience. In fact, I bounced around three colleges in just four years, joking that I was “academically promiscuous.”
I started at Syracuse and dropped out after a single semester. I don’t regret leaving—I had my reasons—but I think part of me was looking to go back to the way things were. I was never the guy who couldn’t wait to leave my no-name town in the dust—I like where I grew up and the people I grew up with. I don’t carry a lot of scars from my teenage years. I had a good high school experience. I just needed to learn—the hard way—that the high school experience ends.
For a year and a half, in between my time at Syracuse and Rutgers, I went to Brookdale, the community college located…well, a few minutes from Red Bank. Turns out there’s not a whole lot to do in a shore town in the dead of winter, especially when you’re under twenty-one and all your friends are enrolled out of state.
And while a typical college experience is full of easy ways to make friends, meeting people at a community college is far more challenging. In fact, the experience hardly resembles anything that anyone’s ever imagined college to be. There’s very little in the way of elbow patches on tweed jackets. No pipe-smoking professors sitting at the top of the circle discussing Proust with their argyle-wearing students. There weren’t even classic panty-raiding shenanigans going on under the nose of the fun-hating dean in the snobs-versus-slobs tradition.
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